


The Hunt

by Swiftsure



Series: Wolf Pack [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swiftsure/pseuds/Swiftsure
Summary: Follows on from 'Instinct'. (Not necessary to have read it though)Jon must go on a ritual hunt where he is paired with a man he does not know.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Series: Wolf Pack [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624507
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	The Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> This fits somewhere down the road in the plot of ['Instinct'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19022446/chapters/45176431). There's a big gap I've still got to write in-between.

When it came time to leave, Jon looked back at the camp, even though he knew she wouldn't still be waiting. He scanned the outermost line of tents and saw no sign of her. The party was moving off. Jon followed the other men, his shoulders set, resigned.

"Do not look so grim, little crow," said Tormund in an undertone. "You are not walking to your death."

Jon looked at him, squinting as the sun glared off the snow.

Tormund laughed roguishly. “Aye, I know well enough, lad. You want to stay in camp with your little girl. She has your blood hot.” He looked ahead at the party of men toiling along in the snow. “It will be different with a man. But it need not be unpleasant. There are some pleasures a woman cannot give you - ”

“Chief Dagr,” Jon broke in, embarrassed by Tormund's talk. “What sort of man is he?”

Tormund followed the line of Jon's gaze, to the man who lumbered through the snow near the head of the party. “He can swing an axe. He is the Gakka's new chief. Urpo was Magnar before him. Good for all of us that Urpo is dead. Mance went and spoke with Dagr, convinced him to bring his clan down from the mountains.”

They walked all that day, crossed the Milkwater and made camp under a rocky outcropping with the sound of a waterfall churning nearby. They came out of the Skirling Pass the next day, and the mountainous land gave way to forest.

Tormund took them to a place in the forest where a circle of stone monoliths as tall as men stood among the trees. It was an old place known to the wildlings. They set up camp there before midday, and made ready to hunt.

They were to separate into groups. Jon and Dagr were to hunt together as a pair - this was a part of the ritual, a time for them to become acquainted, before they went to bed together that night, after a feast of meat.

Tormund took Jon aside before the hunting parties set off.

“Any trouble, you speak to me when we get back, understand, little crow?” he said in an undertone.

Jon looked at him, surprised. He nodded.

Jon's eyes flickered to where Dagr stood with some of the other men, talking. One of the men was showing Dagr his bow, talking animatedly. Dagr's eyes abruptly met Jon's. Jon dropped his gaze. He tried to think of being with a man - being with that man - and his mind could supply very little. 

"Talk to him," Tormund said. He thumped his fist against Jon's chest and raised his eyebrows. "You might like him."

*

The groups moved off in different directions through the forest.

Jon and Dagr walked for some time in silence, searching for deer tracks in the snow. They stopped in a clearing and finally Dagr said,

"So. You are the crow.”

His attitude was altered from how it had been when they were introduced in Mance’s tent.

"Mine for the hunt."

He reached his hand up to touch Jon’s face, and Jon shifted away unthinkingly. He'd not been prepared for it. Immediately he worried that he'd offended the man, but Dagr laughed.

“You are afraid, are you, boy? Afraid of our ways? These are the customs of our folk. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dagr sniffed and looked into the forest. “I did not think I would ever fuck a crow.”

There were flakes of snow in Dagr's beard and hair. He was a little fat round the jowls. Jon tried to concentrate on these human frailties. He asked himself inwardly if this made the man seemed less strange to him, but he wasn't sure.

There was no way to resist the ritual at this point. Jon had agreed to it, and now he was here, there was no getting out of it. He was away from the main camp, in a forest with this man who Mance had chosen for him.

“Tell me, boy, have you killed a man yet?” Dagr said. He looked at Jon with hard eyes, with a strange amusement.

Qhorin Halfhand was the only man Jon had killed.

“Aye, sir,” Jon said. There was the living corpse that he'd stabbed and burned in Mormont's chambers. But that had been no man at all.

“How many?” Dagr said.

Jon hesitated. He did not want to talk to this man about Qhorin.

"They teach you to kill Free Folk," Dagr said. He ran his eye over Jon. “Look at you. You can barely grow a beard. You are a pretty thing. No wonder Tormund guards you. But he will not be bedding you tonight.” Dagr chuckled.

Jon looked down at the snowy ground. The way Dagr spoke outraged him, but there was nothing to be done about it.

"By rights, I should take you as I please," Dagr went on. "But Tormund has his _rules for the hunt_." He said it mockingly, and that made Jon lift his eyes in surprise. Tormund was a man who could laugh at himself, Jon had seen people of his pack laugh with him - and always with fondness. Jon had never heard him spoken of with contempt.

"Let us hunt deer," Dagr said. "Before I do something imprudent."

They sighted only one deer, a buck. Dagr's arrow found it, stuck in behind its shoulder, then the beast took off into the trees.

"Damn it to hell," Dagr said after they had been tracking the blood for an hour. He slashed his bone sword through the ferns, making no effort to be quiet.

*

They returned to the camp early, with nothing to show for their hunt.

No one else was back yet. The snow was coming down heavy.

Dagr went into the tent with his bow and quiver of arrows. He ducked inside and Jon was glad to be out of his presence. The man's mood had turned black when they'd failed to find the deer.

Jon stayed outside. There was water to fetch from the stream, and kindling to gather, birch bark and lichen, twigs and wood - camp duties that were Jon's, assigned to him in the last few weeks whenever he'd travelled with Tormund and his men.

Jon stacked the wood neatly and crouched down to arrange the kindling. The snow was landing on him, all in his hair. He wiped his face and took out his flint. He was glad of the work. He glanced now and then at the trees when he heard a noise, hoping the others would be coming back.

"Boy. Come here."

Jon looked up.

Dagr was standing bent in the entrance of the tent, with a certain stillness, watching Jon. Jon hadn't been aware of him at all. He wondered how long Dagr had been standing there.

Jon stood and went to him. Dagr came out the tent and held the flap aside so Jon could go in. Jon hesitated. He didn't want to go inside. Tormund and the others had not yet returned and he was alone with the man. At the same time, he knew his unease to be foolish. He had been alone with the man for the last few hours.

Dagr didn't say anything. He waited. There was a strange pause, then Jon had to go into the tent.

Dagr had lit the fire inside.

"Go on," the man said. "Get warm."

At his bidding, Jon sat on the log near the fire.

"Take off your coat," Dagr said. He'd come and stood by the fire. It was not yet very warm.

Jon didn't want to take off his coat. He sat unmoving, stupid, aware that the situation was overtaking him and not sure of how to escape it.

Dagr moved towards him. He did not look angry, but he gripped Jon by the chin suddenly and forced his head back.

"You will obey me, boy," he said quietly. "Take off your coat."

He released Jon's chin. There was no heat in his expression, his look was remote, detached. There was no question that Jon would obey.

Jon felt a strange inertia take over his limbs. His mind was oddly blank. This was what the hunt was for, wasn't it? This was the ritual of these people. It was utterly foreign to him, humiliating, but for the wildlings it was natural, this was something men did. Above all, it _must_ happen. He must submit to this man. So wasn't it better that they were alone, after all? The humiliation would have been harder to bear with the other men present.

The thought struck Jon inwardly with a sudden chill that perhaps this was the plan all along. The other men were purposefully staying away so that it could be done. The realisation made him feel a little sick, and he felt like a fool for wasting time outside doing his chores, putting off the inevitable.

To humiliate - that was probably the true objective of this ritual. A way to humiliate and humble a young man, to humiliate him by violating his body, master him that way. Probably, a young man would not have the will to challenge his tribe elders after something so lowering.

Jon opened his coat with stupid slow fingers. He shrugged the coat down his shoulders, staring at Dagr's boots, at the fur matted with snow and mud.

"And your shift," Dagr said.

Jon pulled the soft deerskin undershift off over his head.

"Mance sees something in you, perhaps," said Dagr. "You deserted the crows, just like he did."

Jon dropped the undershift aside. He lifted his eyes and met the man's heavy gaze for a moment.

"Yes," said Dagr, the sardonic smile on his face easing, his expression altering. "Look at me."

He moved close again and touched Jon's face.

Jon looked away. The man's nearness was a horror to him. He loomed over Jon and Jon had to stay as he was, seating and still, small and waiting like a woman.

Dagr rubbed his thumb across Jon's mouth, smearing the shape of his lips, and that was too much. Jon jerked his head away and the man let him.

"You crows with your flashing steel," Dagr chuckled. "If your brothers could only see you now, eh? What would they say? I'll teach you to take my cock in your mouth and your arse." He sighed, the slow lazy sigh of his breath. "Always attack in a flock. But you’re all alone now, aren't you, little crow?"

Little crow. It was the name Tormund often used for him, with fondness, Jon now realised, as he heard it said with such casual contempt.

"How did Mance know I wanted a crow to fuck?" Dagr said. "Truly, a gift. And I mean to enjoy you."

He opened his coat then and began opening his breeches.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Dagr said. 

Jon realised he'd risen to his feet. Dagr stopped working his breeches open and moved towards Jon.

"On your knees, boy."

Jon couldn't do it. So much depended on him doing this, submitting to it - but he realised all at once that he couldn't do it.

"On your knees," Dagr said again.

Jon opened his mouth. "I - "

Dagr backhanded him hard across the face, hard. Jon stumbled and fell.

"You will learn to obey an order the first time I give it," Dagr said mildly. He grabbed Jon by the hair. Jon’s mouth was bleeding, down his chin. The man dragged Jon up by his hair, forcing him to kneel.

Jon knelt panting with the man's hand fisted his hair. His whole body was quivering. He should fight. He, who had been raised in the house of Stark, Lord Eddard Stark's son - even if he was only his bastard. Ned Stark would have been ashamed of him for submitting to this. Robb would have never let a man touch him like this. It seemed impossible that it was happening to Jon.

Dagr took out his cock. Jon was frozen. The man’s big prick looked so strange hanging out of his breeches. A part of Jon's mind felt it was too absurd to be happening.

“Open your mouth, boy.”

The shock of seeing the man's cock, and then hearing this order, broke the spell that had been over Jon. With a desperate surge, he grabbed the man's wrist and gained his feet even as Dagr's fist in his hair yanked savagely. Jon drove his shoulder into him, shoved him, and Dagr stumbled backwards.

Jon was free - he didn't think beyond getting out of the tent. He started for the entrance on blind instinct.

Something grabbed his ankle - Dagr had lurched forward and caught hold of him. Jon fell. His head hit into Egill's shield which was lying on the floor. His forehead struck the domed boss at the centre of the shield. He lay for a moment, dazed.

"Little fucker," Dagr seethed. "You want me to be rough, do you?"

He tore at Jon’s breeches, yanked them down roughly, exposing his naked arse. Jon tried to crawl away. His head was reeling.

Hands groped Jon's naked buttocks. He tried to crawl away, but the man held onto him by his breeches and went on groping him - it was impossible the man should be touching him there, rough large hands squeezing Jon's flesh. Only Ygritte had ever touched him there. It was wrong. Jon tried to drag himself across the floor.

The tent flap slapped open and cold light spilled into the tent, cold air gusted in.

Everything stopped.

Tormund bent his head and stepped quickly inside, his spear in his hand, the rush of the cold came in with him.

"So, you are back, Tormund," Dagr said, panting. He took his hands off of Jon and Jon crawled free.

Jon hauled his breeches up quickly. There was blood in his eye. His face burned with shame.

“What the fuck is this,” Tormund said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I grew tired of waiting,” Dagr said. “You have a problem I take my claim?” He got to his feet. His cock was hanging out his breeches, his attitude was careless.

“Do you call this first claiming?” Tormund said.

“A claiming worthy of a crow.”

Tormund came slowly towards the man.

"Put your diseased prick away," Tormund said quietly, "or if you prefer, I can cut it off.”

Dagr laughed. He tucked himself away, not in any rush about it.

"I might have let you fuck him after I was finished," he said. "Mance gave the boy to me. He's mine by rights. How do you interfere?"

"The gods oversee this rite," Tormund said. "This is a sacred place. We do not come here to rape boys."

"Please," Dagr groaned. "I never heard that Chief Tormund Giantsbane was soft. The boy is not of your clan. He has no clan." Dagr's mouth quirked in a smile. "He is a _crow_ , and I'll use him as I like. Mance will be glad that I do. He wants me happy. So why don't you fuck off back outside and let me get on with it?"

Tormund tilted his head, examining the other man, their faces close.

Without warning, Tormund smashed his forehead into Dagr's nose. Dagr staggered back and Tormund struck him across the face with the butt of his spear. Dagr staggered into the fire, scattering logs and ash.

Bersi and Egill came into the tent and stood motionless with surprise for a moment. Tormund had his spear tip to Dagr's throat even as the man was jerking around trying to get out of the collapsed fire.

Jon was kneeling. He wiped clumsily at his eye. He tried to stand and his leg gave out. He knelt, humiliated, crouching like dog on the floor. He touched his head again and felt the blood wet and sticky.

Bersi and Egill moved - hastening to kick the spilt logs away from the furs.

"Don't kill him, Tormund," said Bersi, grabbing Tormund's arm. Dagr rolled off the firepit and onto his hands and knees.

"Mad fucking dog!" he spat.

Tormund struck him again with the butt of his spear.

"The tent's going to burn down," Bersi said, grabbing a water skin and dumping it over a smoking log.

"Egill," Tormund said. "See that this cunt gets back to the camp."

"Mance will have you skinned for this," Dagr said, staggering to his feet. "You throw away the allegiance of my pack? For what? A crow?"

Tormund moved suddenly, and Bersi moved with him, anticipating it, grabbing Tormund's spear arm. Darg moved quickly back a step.

Egill hastened forward. “Come, Dagr.”

Dagr went by Tormund and out the tent with Egill. Tormund turned in place to follow him, his spear up.

Bersi set about kicking the logs back into the firepit.

Tormund looked down at Jon.

“Is Owin back?” Tormund said.

“I saw him coming - ”

“Fetch him.”

Bersi went out.

Tormund moved closer to Jon and Jon tried again to stand, and again he staggered. Tormund caught his arm.

“Easy. Sit down.”

He guided Jon to the stump and Jon sat. His clothes were there. He reached for the undershift and pulled it on.

“Let me see,” Tormund said.

He held Jon’s chin and tilted his head. For a second it was a nauseatingly similar to Dagr's touch.

“Easy,” Tormund said as Jon shied from him. He knelt down and his touch was gentle on Jon’s jaw. “Let me look at you.”

Jon clamped his jaw and sat still and let Tormund look. Everything seemed unreal, how quickly it all happened, how strange it was.

Tormund wasn't speaking, ominously quiet.

 _I should have fought Dagr off,_ Jon thought, a belated hot anger and shame rising in him, he was hot and shaking. _Why didn't I fight him off?_

“Tormund?” Owin came into the tent.

Tormund rose to his feet.

“Take care of him.”

Tormund went out the tent.

Owin knelt in Tormund's place. “Well now. What have you gotten into, Jon?”

The healer had his bag with him. He took a cloth out and doused it in water.

“What did he hit you with?”

He dabbed at Jon’s brow.

“I fell,” Jon said leadenly.

“The randy old bastard,” Owin muttered. He looked Jon over. “Hold that there, boy.”

Jon pressed the dripping cloth to the cut on his brow and Owin took more cloth from the bag and he cleaned Jon’s face.

Aito and Cormac came into the tent.

“The fucker,” Cormac said.

“Bring me more water, would you?” Owin says.

Aito ducked back out.

“Is he alright?” Cormac said.

“Just dazed.”

Jon didn't know why he couldn't seem to speak as Owin went on cleaning his face.

Aito returned with the water.

“He’s sending Gulbran and Bersi to take the old fucker back to camp,” Aito said, handing the waterskin down.

There were four men in the tent now, with Jon, along with the healer. The men stood round the ruined firepit, their hands on their hips.

Tormund came in again, growling,

“Out. Go on, outside.”

The men cleared out.

“Bump to the head,” Owin said, resting back on his heels. “He’ll be alright.”

Tormund placed his hand over Jon’s hand holding the wadded cloth and drew it away. Tormund peered down at him, examining the cut.

Owin packed his things away and slipped out.

Tormund sat on a log opposite, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of his mouth.

“Did he touch you in the woods?”

“No,” Jon said. He picked up his coat and dragged it over his shoulders.

“This is not how we do first claiming.” Tormund stared unfocused into the tumbled smoking logs. “Mance honoured Dagr by allowing him to hunt with us. He honoured the fucker by giving him first claim on you.”

“Dagr said he wanted a crow,” Jon said quietly. “Mance gave him one.”

“You're not a crow. You pledged yourself to Mance. Dagr spat in Mance's face, doing this.” Tormund pushed quickly to his feet and paced away from the fire. “Mance would not allow _this_. The hunt is sacred to our tribes. Don't listen to what that old cunt told you.”

"Can I wash?" Jon said.

Tormund turned and stared at him keenly. "You've got the stink of him on you? Come. Wash in the stream."


End file.
